 | Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr |  |
417
THE ARMORER'S ERRAND
A BALLAD OF 1775
Where the far skies soared clear and bright
From mountain height to mountain height,
In the heart of a forest old and gray,
Castleton slept one Sabbath day—
Slept and dreamed, on the seventh of May,
Seventeen hundred and seventy-five.
From mountain height to mountain height,
In the heart of a forest old and gray,
Castleton slept one Sabbath day—
Slept and dreamed, on the seventh of May,
Seventeen hundred and seventy-five.
But hark! a humming, like bees in a hive;
Hark to the shouts—“They come! they come!”
Hark to the sound of the life and drum!
For up from the south two hundred men—
Two hundred and fifty—from mount and glen,
While the deep woods rang with their rallying cry
Of “Ticonderoga! Fort Ti! Fort Ti!”
Swept into the town with a martial tread,
Ethan Allen marching ahead!
Hark to the shouts—“They come! they come!”
Hark to the sound of the life and drum!
For up from the south two hundred men—
Two hundred and fifty—from mount and glen,
While the deep woods rang with their rallying cry
Of “Ticonderoga! Fort Ti! Fort Ti!”
Swept into the town with a martial tread,
Ethan Allen marching ahead!
Next day the village was all astir
With unwonted tumult and hurry. There were
Gatherings here and gatherings there,
A feverish heat in the very air,
The ominous sound of trampling feet,
And eager groups in the dusty street.
To Eben's forge strode Gershom Beach
(Idle it stood, and its master away);
Blacksmith and armorer stout was he,
First in the fight and first in the breach,
And first in work where a man should be.
“I'll borrow your tools, my friend,” he said,
“And temper these blades if I lose my head!”
With unwonted tumult and hurry. There were
Gatherings here and gatherings there,
A feverish heat in the very air,
The ominous sound of trampling feet,
And eager groups in the dusty street.
To Eben's forge strode Gershom Beach
(Idle it stood, and its master away);
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First in the fight and first in the breach,
And first in work where a man should be.
“I'll borrow your tools, my friend,” he said,
“And temper these blades if I lose my head!”
So he wrought away till the sun went down,
And silence fell on the turbulent town;
And the flame of the forge through the darkness glowed,
A square of light on the sandy road.
Then over the threshold a shadow fell,
And he heard a voice that he knew right well.
It was Ethan Allen's. He cried: “I knew
Where the forge-fire blazed I must look for you!
But listen! more arduous work than this,
Lying in wait for someone is;
And tempering blades is only play
To the task I set for him this day—
Or this night, rather.” A grim smile played
O'er the armorer's face as his hand he stayed.
“Say on. I never have shirked,” said he;
“What may this wonderful task-work be?”
And silence fell on the turbulent town;
And the flame of the forge through the darkness glowed,
A square of light on the sandy road.
Then over the threshold a shadow fell,
And he heard a voice that he knew right well.
It was Ethan Allen's. He cried: “I knew
Where the forge-fire blazed I must look for you!
But listen! more arduous work than this,
Lying in wait for someone is;
And tempering blades is only play
To the task I set for him this day—
Or this night, rather.” A grim smile played
O'er the armorer's face as his hand he stayed.
“Say on. I never have shirked,” said he;
“What may this wonderful task-work be?”
“To go by the light of the evening star
On an urgent errand, swift and far—
From town to town and from farm to farm
To carry the warning and sound the alarm!
Wake Rutland and Pittsford! Rouse Neshobè, too,
And all the fair valley the Otter runs through—
For we need more men! Make no delay,
But hasten, hasten, upon your way!”
He doffed his apron, he tightened his belt,
To fasten the straps of his leggings he knelt.
“Ere the clock strikes nine,” said Gershom Beach,
“Friend Allen, I will be out of reach;
And I pledge you my word, ere dawn of day
Guns and men shall be under way.
But where shall I send these minute-men?”
“Do you know Hand's Cove?” said Allen then,
“On the shore of Champlain? Let them meet me there
By to-morrow night, be it foul or fair!”
On an urgent errand, swift and far—
From town to town and from farm to farm
To carry the warning and sound the alarm!
Wake Rutland and Pittsford! Rouse Neshobè, too,
And all the fair valley the Otter runs through—
For we need more men! Make no delay,
But hasten, hasten, upon your way!”
He doffed his apron, he tightened his belt,
To fasten the straps of his leggings he knelt.
“Ere the clock strikes nine,” said Gershom Beach,
“Friend Allen, I will be out of reach;
419
Guns and men shall be under way.
But where shall I send these minute-men?”
“Do you know Hand's Cove?” said Allen then,
“On the shore of Champlain? Let them meet me there
By to-morrow night, be it foul or fair!”
“Good-by, I'm off!” Then down the road
As if on seven-league boots he strode,
While Allen watched from the forge's door
Till the stalwart form he could see no more.
Into the woods passed Gershom Beach;
By nine of the clock he was out of reach.
But still, as his will his steps outran,
He said to himself, with a laugh, “Old man,
Never a minute have you to lose,
Never a minute to pick or choose;
For sixty miles in twenty-four hours
Is surely enough to try your powers.
So square your shoulders and speed away
With never a halt by night or day.”
As if on seven-league boots he strode,
While Allen watched from the forge's door
Till the stalwart form he could see no more.
Into the woods passed Gershom Beach;
By nine of the clock he was out of reach.
But still, as his will his steps outran,
He said to himself, with a laugh, “Old man,
Never a minute have you to lose,
Never a minute to pick or choose;
For sixty miles in twenty-four hours
Is surely enough to try your powers.
So square your shoulders and speed away
With never a halt by night or day.”
'Twas a moonless night; but over his head
The stars a tremulous lustre shed,
And the breath of the woods grew strangely sweet,
As he crushed the wild ferns under his feet,
And trampled the shy arbutus blooms,
With their hoarded wealth of rare perfumes.
He sniffed as he went. “It seems to me
There are May-flowers here, but I cannot see.
I've read of the ‘hush of the silent night’;
Now hark! there's a wolf on yonder height;
There's a snarling catamount prowling round;
Every inch of the ‘silence’ is full of sound;
The night-birds cry; the whip-poor-wills
Call to each other from all the hills;
A scream comes down from the eagle's nest;
The bark of a fox from the cliff's tall crest;
The owls hoot; and the very trees
Have something to say to every breeze!”
The stars a tremulous lustre shed,
And the breath of the woods grew strangely sweet,
As he crushed the wild ferns under his feet,
And trampled the shy arbutus blooms,
With their hoarded wealth of rare perfumes.
He sniffed as he went. “It seems to me
There are May-flowers here, but I cannot see.
I've read of the ‘hush of the silent night’;
Now hark! there's a wolf on yonder height;
There's a snarling catamount prowling round;
Every inch of the ‘silence’ is full of sound;
The night-birds cry; the whip-poor-wills
420
A scream comes down from the eagle's nest;
The bark of a fox from the cliff's tall crest;
The owls hoot; and the very trees
Have something to say to every breeze!”
The paths were few and the ways were rude
In the depths of that virgin solitude.
The Indian's trail and the hunter's tracks,
The trees scarred deep by the settler's axe,
Or a cow-path leading to the creek,—
These were the signs he had to seek;
Save where, it may be, he chanced to hit
The Crown Point road and could follow it—
The road by the British troops hewn out
Under General Amherst in fifty-nine,
When he drove the French from the old redoubt,
Nor waited to give the countersign!
In the depths of that virgin solitude.
The Indian's trail and the hunter's tracks,
The trees scarred deep by the settler's axe,
Or a cow-path leading to the creek,—
These were the signs he had to seek;
Save where, it may be, he chanced to hit
The Crown Point road and could follow it—
The road by the British troops hewn out
Under General Amherst in fifty-nine,
When he drove the French from the old redoubt,
Nor waited to give the countersign!
The streams were many and swift and clear;
But there was no bridge, or far or near.
It was midnight when he paused to hear
At Rutland, the roar of the waterfall,
And found a canoe by the river's edge,
In a tangled thicket of reeds and sedge.
With a shout and a cheer, on the rushing tide
He launched it and flew to the other side;
Then giving his message, on he sped,
By the light of the pale stars overhead,
Past the log church below Pine Hill,
And the graveyard opposite. All was still,
And the one lone sleeper lying there
Stirred not either for cry or prayer.
But there was no bridge, or far or near.
It was midnight when he paused to hear
At Rutland, the roar of the waterfall,
And found a canoe by the river's edge,
In a tangled thicket of reeds and sedge.
With a shout and a cheer, on the rushing tide
He launched it and flew to the other side;
Then giving his message, on he sped,
By the light of the pale stars overhead,
Past the log church below Pine Hill,
And the graveyard opposite. All was still,
And the one lone sleeper lying there
Stirred not either for cry or prayer.
Only pausing to give the alarm
At rude log cabin and lonely farm.
From hamlet to hamlet he hurries along,
Borne on by a purpose deep and strong.
Look! there's a deer in the forest glade,
Stealing along like a silent shade!
Hark to the loon that cries and moans
With a living grief in its human tones!
At Pittsford the light begins to grow
In the wakening east; and drifting slow,
From valley and river and wildwood, rise,
Like the smoke of a morning sacrifice,
Clouds of translucent, silver mist,
Flushing to rose and amethyst;
While thrush and robin and bluebird sing
Till the woods with jubilant music ring!
At rude log cabin and lonely farm.
421
Borne on by a purpose deep and strong.
Look! there's a deer in the forest glade,
Stealing along like a silent shade!
Hark to the loon that cries and moans
With a living grief in its human tones!
At Pittsford the light begins to grow
In the wakening east; and drifting slow,
From valley and river and wildwood, rise,
Like the smoke of a morning sacrifice,
Clouds of translucent, silver mist,
Flushing to rose and amethyst;
While thrush and robin and bluebird sing
Till the woods with jubilant music ring!
It was day at last! He looked around,
With a firmer tread on the springing ground;
“Now the men will be all a-field,” said he,
“And that will save many a step for me.
Each man will be ready to go; but still,
I must confess, if I'd had my will,
I'd have waited till after planting-time,
For now the season is in its prime.
The young green leaves of the oak-tree here
Are just the size of a squirrel's ear;
And I've known no rule, since I was born,
Safer than that for planting corn!”
With a firmer tread on the springing ground;
“Now the men will be all a-field,” said he,
“And that will save many a step for me.
Each man will be ready to go; but still,
I must confess, if I'd had my will,
I'd have waited till after planting-time,
For now the season is in its prime.
The young green leaves of the oak-tree here
Are just the size of a squirrel's ear;
And I've known no rule, since I was born,
Safer than that for planting corn!”
He threaded the valleys, he climbed the hills,
He forded the rivers, he leaped the rills,
While still to his call, like minute-men
Booted and spurred, from mount and glen,
The settlers rallied. But on he went
Like an arrow shot from a bow, unspent,
Down the long vale of the Otter to where
The might of the waterfall thundered in air;
Then across to the lake, six leagues and more,
Where Hand's Cove lay in the bending shore.
The goal was reached. He dropped to the ground
In a deep ravine, without word or sound;
And Sleep, the restorer, bade him rest
Like a weary child, on the earth's brown breast.
He forded the rivers, he leaped the rills,
While still to his call, like minute-men
Booted and spurred, from mount and glen,
The settlers rallied. But on he went
Like an arrow shot from a bow, unspent,
Down the long vale of the Otter to where
422
Then across to the lake, six leagues and more,
Where Hand's Cove lay in the bending shore.
The goal was reached. He dropped to the ground
In a deep ravine, without word or sound;
And Sleep, the restorer, bade him rest
Like a weary child, on the earth's brown breast.
At midnight he woke with a quick heart-beat,
And sprang with a will to his throbbing feet;—
For armed men swarmed in the dim ravine,
And Ethan Allen, as proud of mien
As a king on his throne, smiled down on him,
While he stretched and straightened each stiffened limb.
“Nay, nay,” said the Colonel, “take your rest,
As a knight who has done his chief's behest!”
And sprang with a will to his throbbing feet;—
For armed men swarmed in the dim ravine,
And Ethan Allen, as proud of mien
As a king on his throne, smiled down on him,
While he stretched and straightened each stiffened limb.
“Nay, nay,” said the Colonel, “take your rest,
As a knight who has done his chief's behest!”
“Not yet!” cried the armorer. “Where's my gun?
A knight fights on till the field is won!”
And into Fort Ti, ere dawn of day,
He stormed with his comrades to share the fray!
A knight fights on till the field is won!”
And into Fort Ti, ere dawn of day,
He stormed with his comrades to share the fray!
| Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr | |